


All of Those Things You Feared

by ofbrothersandteacakes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Fred Weasley Lives, Gen, Grief/Mourning, J.K. Rowling's Underused Lore, Pain, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Sort Of, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-11-27 09:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18192575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofbrothersandteacakes/pseuds/ofbrothersandteacakes
Summary: The night before what’s supposed to be his funeral, Fred Weasley’s body goes missing. Though his family blame a Ministry mix-up, George is convinced something else is afoot. In his search for his twin, he finds himself thrust into a supernatural underworld the wizarding community strives to keep hidden and begins to uncover secrets which have been buried for generations.





	1. Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Brother Bear's 'Transformation'. 
> 
> Please note this first chapter is rather sad and painful. There's some grim description of the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts but not lots. It gets quite heavy with regard to death and grief etc. so just be aware of that going in. After this chapter, it gets not-so-painful.

Smoke rises into the sky in a steady stream, starkly juxtaposing the inky black of night with its white and grey tendrils. There’s a stench in the air unlike anything George has ever encountered, and he knows it to be the stench of death – what else could it be on a battlefield? Schooldays on lush green hills have long since been forgotten. The grounds of Hogwarts are now a place of war, no matter how much he and everyone else who fought alongside him despise it.

As he passes by body after body, he swallows down bile. The grass underfoot squelches, and George tries to stop himself dwelling on whether it’s due to blood or simply mud.

The battle was over, for now at least, and it was time to tend to the dead, or so Voldemort himself had encouraged. But George wants to find his family and, perhaps most importantly, find Fred. How long had it been since he’d last seen him? Time had simultaneously dragged and blurred from the moment the Death Eaters had begun their assault. George couldn’t have even guessed at the hour, though the black of night was beginning to filter into a deep blue; dawn’s starting its approach and George welcomes it. The dark of night had lasted long enough.

“Some of these people – they’re just _kids_ ,” Lee murmurs. George sees his eyes flicking between the different bodies and feels guilty for trying so hard to avert his gaze, but a single glimpse of uniform had left him reeling. There were so many bodies, and so many were children, children who should’ve been at home. And he and Fred had agreed to bring _Ginny_ here. She so easily could’ve been one of the children on the ground, dead long before her time.

George sucks in a breath and regrets it in an instant as death fills his lungs, leaving his eyes watering. “I know,” he chokes out, and Lee falls silent, probably assuming he can barely talk due to how traumatic the whole situation is. They continue their walk amongst the dead – _schoolyard turned graveyard_ , his mind helpfully supplies, and his heart twists in his chest.

As they draw nearer to the doors of the school, individuals wander out, looking hopelessly lost and starting desperate calls for friends, for family, for those they love. George hopes against hope that his family won’t need to do the same, but they’re a large family, and the school itself is huge.

The Great Hall is abuzz with at least a hundred whispering voices, people who are tending to the wounded and the dying. Lee peels away from him almost immediately, muttering something about finding friends and leaving George to pick his way through the hall, scanning for any sign of red hair. It doesn’t take long. Although everyone is filthy, the Weasley hair could never be hidden completely. Relief flooding through him, George heads for his family. There’s Mum, pacing across a tiny distance repeatedly, and Dad, worrying at his lip. The sight of Ginny, arms folded, expression grim, eases some of the tension out of George’s shoulders. Bill and Fleur are hugging each other, Bill’s lips at his wife’s hair.

But there’s no Ron. No Percy. No _Fred_ , and that alone is enough to kick up the pace George’s heart is beating at. He’s almost tempted to turn around right then and leave the Great Hall to find him but – but no, it’s too late. Mum’s spotted him.

“George,” she cries, and that causes the rest of his family to turn to look at him, too. In a matter of moments, they’ve swarmed him, Mum’s hands at his face, rubbing away dirt, while Ginny clutches his arm and Bill and Dad grip a shoulder each. Fleur gives his hand a squeeze. After Mum’s peppered his dirty face with kisses, she pulls away, giving him a chance to breathe, and the question that had been on his lips burst free of hers first. “Where’s Fred?” she asks, glancing behind him, as if his twin, his shadow, would be hiding right there.

George swallows and his tongue darts out to moisten cracked lips. “That’s what I was going to ask you,” he says.

“Weren’t you together? You’re always together,” Mum says, her voice verging on desperate. “Why aren’t you together? You’re supposed to look after each other,” she insists, and with each word, her voice climbs an octave higher. George’s heart gives a horrible twist again.

“We split up to cover more passages,” he tells her, doing his best to push down his worry. “He went with Percy. He’ll be fine. They’ll have each other’s backs.”

That seems to give Mum some respite, but it doesn’t put an end to her pacing, nor does it stop Dad worrying at his lip. Each minute, each _second_ that passes feels like a lifetime and George is again overcome with the urge to go searching for his twin but doesn’t. It might be because he’s terrified of what he’ll find.

It’s Bill who sees him first and calls out, “Percy!”

Stupidly, George lets him think that means Fred must be back too and turns to look in the direction Bill is facing, but Percy is stood alone in the middle of the Great Hall, looking haunted as he begins a slow walk towards them all. It’s too slow for George; in a few strides he’s standing in front of his brother, and Percy stares at him wordlessly for only a second before his entire expression crumples.

 _No_.

“Where’s Fred?” he asks urgently, gripping Percy’s shoulders. Percy ducks his head and _sobs_ and George senses his entire family stiffening behind him because that’s not the sort of response anybody wants to see to such a simple question. “Is he hurt? Where is he, Percy?” he demands, and when Percy doesn’t answer, just continues to sob, he gives him a shake.

Bill steps in, gently prying George’s fingers from Percy. “Give him a moment to breathe,” he coaxes and so, George steps back, albeit keeping his eyes fixed on Percy. Dad tugs on the back of George’s jacket, pulling him a little further away. The whole family is horribly silent as they wait for Bill to calm Percy enough to speak clearly.

A few deep breaths later, Bill dares to ask the question again. “Where’s Fred, Perce?”

Percy hiccups and wipes at his eyes with the palm of his hand, nearly knocking his glasses off in the process. “We – we – need to go and get him,” he eventually chokes out, and his expression collapses into one of pure devastation yet again. “I’m so sorry – Mum – George – I’m so sorry,” he says.

_No, no…_

There’s a sharp intake of breath beside him from Mum, and Ginny’s hands fly to her mouth as, one by one, they fumble to piece together what Percy is getting at. “No,” Mum moans, and she staggers forwards, then suddenly grabs Percy’s lapels. “No, he’s not – he’s _not_ ,” and she can’t manage the word roaring through all of their minds. _Dead, dead, dead_. Fred’s dead. _Dead_.

 _No_.

“Where is he?” George whispers, and quiet though his voice is, Percy hears him and jerks his head vaguely in an undeterminable direction.

“Seventh floor,” Percy mumbles.

The seventh floor. Fred hadn’t even made it off the floor they’d split up on.

George’s knees give way beneath him, and if not for Dad’s quick reflexes, he would’ve hit the ground. On unsteady legs, George straightens up again and watches as Mum cries into Percy’s chest, her knuckles white as she clings to his jacket. His own heart is shattered into a thousand pieces. He has no tears. Not yet. Maybe he isn’t dead. Maybe Percy made a mistake in how overwhelming the whole battle was.

It feels as if everyone is watching them as they leave the Great Hall in a sombre parade of red hair and Fleur. Lee hurries to follow, grabbing George by the shoulder as he’s about to climb the stairs. Whatever question he’s going to ask dies on his lips, and he lets George’s shoulder go as soon as he sees his expression, and, without a word, George turns back around and follows his family up the stairs.

All too soon, they’re on the seventh floor, and it’s cold, horribly cold, which is unsurprising, considering the gaping hole in the wall. “We were running along here,” Percy murmurs, trailing his fingers along cold stone. “Ron and Harry and Hermione were with us. They were fine. Just – just Fred,” he tells them, and he sucks in a breath as they approach a little nook in the wall.

And there he is.

Never in his life has Fred looked so pale, not even when he fell off his broom when they were ten and hit his head hard enough to knock him out and justifying an immediate trip to St Mungo’s.

George’s heart _aches_ as he stares at Fred and whatever Mum says initially is too garbled to make out, then she dives forwards and paws at Fred’s body, searching for any sign of life. Then the begging and the pleading starts, desperate cries George ends up drowning out because it hurts too much. Unable to look at his dead twin any longer, he leans back against the nearest stable wall and slides down it, burying his head in his knees.

“We should take him to the Great Hall,” Bill says, a pillar of strength amongst a family falling apart. George raises his head and watches as he tries to pull Mum away from Fred’s corpse. In the end, it takes Bill, Dad, and Percy together, along with words of comfort from Ginny and Fleur. George does nothing. Can do nothing, as broken as he is.

Distantly, he’s aware of his family discussing how best to carry Fred. Using magic is disrespectful, they argue, and George wants to scoff, tell them Fred won’t care how he’s carried because he’s dead. But all his words are gone, and his mouth can form nothing, so he rests his chin atop his knees instead and stares blankly ahead of him, the only thing he feels strong enough to do.

They transfigure a rock into a stretcher and gently lift Fred onto it. Then Bill removes his jacket and transfigures that into a simple white sheet, which he uses to obscure Fred’s still-smiling face from view. Dad and Bill make carrying the stretcher between them look easy, but George knows it’s probably the heaviest burden either of them will ever carry.

Suddenly, Percy and Ginny are standing either side of him, to help him to his feet. George wants to push them away but finds he doesn’t have the strength. They walk slowly behind the rest of their family – Mum is clutching Fred’s hand, and Fleur has an arm around her shoulders.

Their parade is now a funeral procession, and Fred is – Fred is –

The pitying eyes are on them again, George is sure, as they make their way across the Great Hall. Miraculously, the spot they abandoned to retrieve Fred is still empty, so they return to it and Dad and Bill carefully lower the stretcher to the ground. Mum immediately magics the sheet away so that she can take in every aspect of Fred’s face, of his body, and then she flings herself across his chest and starts to wail, a horrible sound that attracts the attention of a few people in the Great Hall.

George lifts his eyes away from Mum and looks out across the room. He catches Professor McGonagall staring at them all, a frown between her brows. She steps closer – closer – and then falters once she’s close enough to see who lies on the floor. One hand rises to cover her mouth, and she turns away, and George finds he has to do the same.

Eventually, he drags his feet around to Fred’s head and drops to his knees. He finds himself staring down at his twin’s face, and suddenly nothing else matters but his grief. People come and go, but George couldn’t even attempt to name who, because all he can see and all he can hear, is Fred’s dead body and the noises he’s no longer able to make.

**.x.x.x.**

Once the battle is well and truly over and after they’ve rested, it’s time for the wizarding world to start piecing itself back together, starting, apparently, with moving the dead. Newly appointed and reappointed Ministry officials are calm and reassuring before they transport the deceased, but they’re all still reluctant to part with Fred’s body.

They do eventually, if only because they have no idea what state the Burrow will be in, and the clean-up of Hogwarts needs to begin. The Ministry is the best place for Fred, they tell each other. The Ministry will make sure his body comes to no harm.

As expected, the Burrow has been ransacked. All the drawers have been emptied, cabinets have been knocked over, and it seems as though every chair in the house has been overturned just because it could be. They walk among the mess and scoff and sigh and tut as they regard the damage.

“It could’ve been a lot worse,” Charlie finally says. George side-eyes him, wary. Whether he’s talking about the house or the war, he can’t be sure. What he is sure of is that his brain still hasn’t decided whether to be angry with Charlie, for showing up at what’s been dubbed the ‘Battle of Hogwarts’ as late as he did. Maybe things would’ve been a lot _better_ , if Charlie had been there to have Percy’s back so George could have Fred’s.

“It’s still home,” Ginny adds decisively, and it’s true. The house could’ve been burnt to the ground or blown to smithereens, but instead, it’s here, sheltering them and undeniably the house they grew up in. The house they _all_ grew up in.

Something breaks in George all over again. He draws his wand and uses it to flip the sofa back over so that he can sink into it with a heavy sigh. As soon as he lets his head rest in his hand, his family seem to take the hint that he has no intention to do anything more. They begin to flutter around him, fixing the house up with murmured spells and slight waves of their wands. _What’s the point in trying to fix me?_ George thinks humourlessly to himself, _Fred’s gone. There’s no fixing that._

Mum comes downstairs crying a short while later, having spent the time undoing the damage in the bedrooms. “All of your rooms are sorted,” she manages to say, her smile watery and the tears still on her cheeks. “George – I – do you want your old room?” she asks, swallowing hard.

 _So that’s why she’s been crying_.

His mouth drops open, but he can’t find an answer. There aren’t enough rooms for him to go anywhere else and he can’t stand the thought of somebody else staying in their – his – bedroom. Even worse would be to return to the flat.

“George can share with me,” Percy says, saving him from replying. Relief floods through him, though the offer surprises him.

“Thanks,” George murmurs.

Mum looks relieved too, and she gives Percy a grateful, but again watery, smile. She sniffs. “I’ll go make us some soup,” she says before hurrying out of their small living room, leaving the remaining Weasleys (and Harry and Hermione) to stand around like statues, unsure of what to do now that the house is clean.

“I will go and ‘elp with the cooking,” Fleur finally says, breaking the awkward silence that’s filled the room. She pecks Bill’s cheek and gives them all the biggest smile she can muster up, then trails after Mum. George swears he hears her sniffle on her way out.

If Fred was here, would it be nearly so uncomfortable? _Probably not_ , George thinks. He swallows and leans back, rubbing briefly at his forehead before dropping his hand.

“We’re going for a walk,” Hermione announces a moment later, grabbing Harry by the arm. “To clear our heads,” she clarifies, tugging him towards the door.

“And I – I’m going to make sure my shed was left alone,” Dad says decisively, tentatively following the two of them. “You lot should, er, catch up.” He gestures vaguely to them all, and then, quite suddenly, there’s only six of them left in the room.

Only six.

The number weighs heavily on his mind. They make only six. Not seven. Never again would they be seven.

Catching all of them off-guard, Bill starts crying. He drops as heavily as George did onto the sofa and buries his face in his hands. He hasn’t cried, much like George, though his reasoning is probably more to do with staying strong for his younger siblings, for Fleur, and for their parents.

“Oh, Bill,” Ginny sighs, walking across the room and wrapping her arms around their brother from behind.

He snorts out a wet laugh and pats her arm but doesn’t stop crying. “I’m supposed to be the one hugging all of you,” he says. Ginny hugs him tighter. “I’m your big brother. It’s my job to –” and then he breaks off and he’s crying even harder, his entire body shaking with sobs.

“No,” Ginny says firmly. “We’re all meant to look after each other.” She pauses, then adds, “As best we can.”

The room falls into silence again, and George can’t help but wonder if his siblings are thinking the same thing as him.

_Our best wasn’t good enough._

**.x.x.x.**

The Ministry is disturbingly quiet without paper notes flying around and workers piling into elevators. Already, Kingsley has had the statue which dominated the atrium removed, but it’s left a large empty space, somehow making the place seem even emptier.

“We’ve transformed the Department of Magical Games and Sports into a temporary holding location for the deceased,” the young witch, whose name George has already forgotten, explains as she leads them into the elevator. “It’s quite cold that level,” she warns them.

Despite their insistence on it being fine – that they were family – Fleur, Harry and Hermione had decided to stay at the Burrow, giving them time alone with Fred, so there’s only eight of them crammed into the elevator.

Truthfully, George is terrified that Fred will have somehow changed a lot since he last saw him, only a handful of days ago. But in just a few short days, it’s going to be his funeral, so he’s painfully aware of the fact this could be his last chance to see Fred in this lifetime.

When the doors of the elevator open and the name of the level is rattled off, he takes a deep breath, steeling himself, before following his family and the woman out of the elevator. It’s cold like the woman said it would be, and George finds himself shivering. Some people are in the corridor already, crying and hugging and comforting one another, but the Weasleys have no choice but to walk by them all.

“Fred’s in here,” the woman says softly. “Alongside four other young men. He’s in the coffin at the far left. Take all the time you need.” She holds open the door, and they file in, Mum clinging to Dad’s hand like it’s her only lifeline and Ginny holding onto Bill, acting as his. The door clicks shut behind them.

The room is much more homely than George was expecting. Late at night, trying to sleep, he’d pictured a cold room, as lifeless as Fred, but despite how cool it is and the fact five bodies are lying in it, the room is pleasant. Peaceful. The candles cast a warm light throughout it. and there are rugs on the floor, soft beneath their feet. Maybe that’s why Mum is so much more composed as she approaches the coffin and peers down at Fred’s face.

“My baby,” she whispers, her fingers brushing Fred’s cheeks. “My brave baby.” It crushes George’s heart.

They wait patiently, and each takes their turn to talk privately to Fred, but each time someone asks if he wants to talk to him yet, George stalls. He isn’t ready to say goodbye. Not yet. _Not yet_.

Then Ginny says goodbye, and he’s the only one left. He swallows as Ginny steps away.

“Can I be alone with him? Please?” he asks his family. All of them have identical expressions of sympathy and sorrow.

“Of course,” Dad says, reaching out and grasping George’s hand for a moment. He lets go and then opens the door and, one by one, they all file out until George is alone with his twin.

On legs which feel like jelly, George moves to Fred’s side and stares down at his face. His smile seems to have gone but he still looks rather Fred-like, and it makes George’s chest ache. He’s wearing his favourite suit; Charlie had gone to the flat and brought a selection of outfits back, and George had known, instantly, to choose the suit, though Mum had made a good case for their work uniform. Selfishly, George hadn’t wanted to be reminded of Fred’s dead body whenever he wore his uniform.

For a brief few seconds, he presses his fingers to Fred’s neck, hoping against hope that somehow, a mistake has been made. But the skin beneath the tips of his fingers feels almost frozen, and it’s completely still. Fred’s body is no more than a shell which once hosted a boisterous soul.

His eyes betray him, and a few tears leak out. “Why?” he whispers to no one, to nobody. No answer comes.

He can’t think of anything to say in goodbye. How could anyone say goodbye to their other half?

Hurting, aching, George steps away from the coffin and towards the door. It opens just as he reaches it and a family far smaller than his own steps in. When he realises it’s the Creeveys, his mouth drops open. He hadn’t even realised…

Dennis Creevey looks at him, looking far older than he is, and doesn’t smile.

George swallows and hurries out of the room.

**.x.x.x.**

The night before the funeral, it’s raining hard. They’re all sat at the dining table, chatting quietly amongst themselves and waiting for Percy to come home. He’d nominated himself to check on Fred, seeing as he worked at the Ministry anyhow, to make sure everything was alright before the funeral, the rest of them too drained to visit him again. It’s not Fred anymore, not really, just a shell which once housed him.

“He should be home by now,” Mum says anxiously, worrying at her lip. Her eyes flit to the clock yet again. When Dad had first retrieved it from Aunt Muriel’s, Fred’s hand had been spinning in circles, unable to settle on one location; Dad removed it shortly after bringing it home because Mum had cried at the sight of it.

Percy’s is still on ‘work’, so Mum’s worries don’t ease.

“Maybe I should go check what’s holding him up. Could be just paperwork,” Bill suggests from the other end of the table. The hand on the clock whips around to ‘travelling’ before Mum can reply and she breathes a huge sigh of relief, getting up to no doubt heat up Percy’s dinner.

The rain continues to pelt the window. “We should’ve turned the Floo back on,” Mum says, grabbing a knife and fork and setting Percy’s place. “He’ll get soaked, poor dear.” George barely suppresses an eye roll. Mum’s been worrying ever since the battle about every little thing, and it’s infuriating and endearing at the same time.

They all startle when there’s a sudden, urgent banging on the door. “It’s open!” Dad shouts, and Percy steps in quickly, soaked to the bone. His face is full of panic.

“What is it?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Did something happen?”

The questions are asked all at once, leaving no time for an answer in between.  

“It’s Fred,” Percy gasps out, his cheeks flushed red with exertion. “He’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to see when I post, follow me on [Tumblr!](https://ofbrothersandteacakes.tumblr.com/)


	2. Hunting

Mum is in tears.

“Where is he? _Where is he_?” is all she seems able to repeat, despite Dad’s best attempts to soothe and reassure her that they’ll find Fred. Aside from her cries, the Burrow sits in a heavy silence; Percy and Bill have gone to the Ministry so that Bill can investigate the disappearance too, while the rest of them sit around in pained silence.

George isn’t sure what to think. How can a dead body just disappear? His fingers drum on his thigh as he thinks hard, possibility after possibility swirling through his mind.

It’s hours before Bill and Percy return and when they do, their expressions are grim. George stares at them, along with everyone else in the room.

“The Ministry say there must have been some sort of mix-up. That maybe they mistook his body for a Death Eaters, or…or something,” Bill explains. There’s a collective gasp from around the room and George can’t help but scoff.

“That’s ridiculous. He was in a room with other people from _our_ side of the battle. And he’s _Fred Weasley_. Our face is practically the biggest thing in Diagon Alley,” George argues. “There must be another explanation.”

With a heavy sigh, Percy pinches his brow and sits down in an armchair Charlie vacates for him. “Like what, George?” he asks, shrugging helplessly. “He didn’t walk out of there on his own.”

“Maybe he did,” George challenges. “Maybe we made a mistake.”

George sees it – the look his family all share, worry and sympathy mixed into one, patronising expression.

It’s Ginny who’s brave enough to say what they all think, soft and gentle, “We all checked, George. He’s dead.”

Before he can stop himself, he shoots a glower Ginny’s way. “I know we all _checked_. But a mix-up makes no sense. Dead people don’t just disappear,” he snaps.

“Exactly.” It’s Bill, and he’s glaring. “He’s dead, George. Alright? _Dead_. The Ministry is in chaos. One dead body going missing isn’t that unbelievable, is it, really?” Around him, the rest of the family is nodding, although their expressions are still wrought.

George pauses, purses his lips, and ponders his next sentence not-so-carefully before just spitting it out. “But it’s _Fred_. Everyone knows his name, his face…”

“We’d all like to believe that,” Dad says, quiet and sorrowful. “But nobody’s thinking about who’s famous and who they recognise or don’t right now.” He falters, then continues, “He’s gone. Hopefully the Ministry will find him, wherever he is, but – we can’t start thinking up the impossible. We should…well, I think we should go ahead with the funeral tomorrow. Maybe make it more of a memorial.”

Mum nods and sniffles. “We said goodbye to him in person already, at least. We all agreed. The body isn’t who he was.”

There’s a general murmur of agreement.

“No,” George says firmly. “No – no, just because we think it’s impossible doesn’t mean it _is_. Why can’t you take it as a sign of hope?” he demands. “I’m not going. Not until we find him. Not until we know for sure.”

“We _do_ know for sure, George!” Charlie slams his hand down on the table. Everyone jumps. “We all felt his skin. Checked his pulse. Percy – Ron – _and_ Hermione and Harry saw him _die_ , for Merlin’s sake! And tomorrow, we’ll let him go, just like everyone else who lost someone in the war will have to, eventually.”

George sucks in a breath. Tears prick at his eyes. He pushes himself to his feet. “You can all do whatever you want,” he tells them. “But I won’t let him go until I see his body again and know there’s no other possibility.”

He heads for the stairs before anyone can stop him and makes a point of stomping all the way up them, caring little for how childish it is. Behind him, he hears concerned mutters, but he ignores them.

As soon as he’s in the safety of Percy’s room, he slams the door, hard.

**.x.x.x.**

Percy never comes up to his bedroom, and George is glad of it. He doesn’t have the energy in him to have another argument, nor any more points to make. However, he does hear each member of his family climbing the stairs to go to bed, and it’s as he’s listening to their footsteps that he decides he can’t possibly sleep, knowing Fred might be out there.

After a few moments of consideration, he sits up. His head takes a second to adjust to being vertical again, then he gets to his feet and quietly begins shoving some of his clothing into his bag. He isn’t sure where he’ll even begin looking for his twin, or why he’s even bothering to take clothes when it could take an hour, if that. Something tells him it’ll be longer though, and it’ll be much easier if he keeps his distance and doesn’t have his grieving family to contend with.

Once the bag is packed, he shrinks it down so that it won’t prove an inconvenience, wherever he’s going. He scans the bedroom one last time, then remembers it’s Percy’s; there’s nothing else he could really need from there.

To make sure nobody hears him creeping down the stairs, he casts a spell on his feet and shoes, muffling their steps. It proves to be for nought, though. Near the bottom of the stairs, he realises the kitchen light is on and can’t help but scowl at the fact there’s no way he’ll be able to make a silent exit now. _It’ll only be Percy_ , he figures, reaching the ground floor and bracing himself before heading into the kitchen.

He immediately stops short at the sight of Percy and _Harry_. They both have red-rimmed eyes and seem just as shocked to see him as he is to see the pair of them sitting together.

There’s a long, awkward silence. Percy is the one to break it. “Where are you going?” he asks, nodding towards George, referring silently to his jacket and the shoes on his feet.

“To find Fred.” George gives his answer immediately, seeing no reason to hide the truth.

Percy winces. Harry looks away and swallows.

“He’s gone, George,” Percy replies, after a beat. “You’ll only find a body, if anything at all.”

“I can’t be bothered to argue about it more, Perce,” George says bluntly. “I’m going to find him. Alive, dead, or otherwise. I’ll bring him home.”

With a small sigh, Percy’s head drops, and he rubs at the bridge of his nose.

“Chasing the dead won’t change anything, George.”

And that’s Harry. George can’t help but give a wry smile.

“You aren’t Dumbledore, Harry,” he tells him. “And you might’ve seen a lot, but you don’t know about everything in our world. There are fates worse than death.” He laughs hollowly. “I know, trust me.”

Like Percy, Harry averts his gaze. Sensing nobody is going to try and stop him, George heads for the door and swings it open. It’s still raining, albeit not as heavily as it was earlier, and the garden is blanketed in the darkness of night.

“Good luck,” Percy says suddenly.

George spares the two of them one last glance over his shoulder, offers a tight smile, then steps out into the night. The door clicks shut behind him.  

**.x.x.x.**

London never sleeps. Even at this hour, there are cars driving by, kicking up puddles, and people drifting past as George approaches the telephone box. Nobody pays him any attention. The darkness hides his attire, which is unsuitable for the Muggle world. Another day, he might have cared.

The telephone box door opens with a squeal and for a moment, George wonders whether anyone has used this entrance recently, whether it’s even _open_. He takes a deep breath and then lifts the receiver to his ear and dials 6-2-4-4-2, fingers numb and hesitant. When they’d been finalising paperwork for the shop, it had always been Fred who had dialled and answered the cool voice on the other end of the line.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

“George Weasley, here to –“ he falters briefly, unsure. “Inquire about Fred Weasley’s whereabouts?” he settles on.

The recorded message ignores his hesitation. “Thank you,” the voice says, “Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes.”

A silver badge clatters out of the coin return slot, reading, ‘George Weasley, Family of the Deceased’. He can’t help but scowl at the title as he pins it to his breast pocket.

“Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium.” The voice suddenly changes to a different woman’s – recorded more recently, George assumes – and says, “Please note that due to current circumstances, searches and registration could take longer than usual.”

The box shudders and begins its descent into the Atrium, the metal groaning all the way down. George puts his hands in his pockets and leans back, fingers fidgeting with his wand. It seems to take a lifetime to reach the bottom and George contemplates whether they might finally update this entrance, once the war clean-up efforts have ended.

The telephone box comes to a halt with a jolt and George straightens before stepping out into Atrium. The statue still hasn’t been replaced, he notes absently. Behind him, the telephone box starts to ascend again. Feeling entirely alone, he begins the long, slow walk across the Atrium. It’s incredibly awkward; the security guard on duty glances up at him and then turns back to his newspaper, apparently not wanting to maintain eye contact for the whole duration of George’s walk.

Finally, George reaches the desk. The guard eyes him with suspicion.

“You’re here rather late,” he says. His eyes flick to the badge fixed to George’s pocket, and something softens in them. “Ah. Your old dad and brothers were here earlier, too.” With a sigh, he gets to his feet and brandishes a golden rod. “We’ve still not found him, but you’re welcome to ask around, if anyone’s still here. Stand still,” he grunts, running the rod over the front and back of George’s robes. “Wand,” he then requests, holding his hand out expectantly.

Obediently, George hands over his wand. The guard immediately drops it onto what seems to be a set of brass scales, though George is sure it’s a more complicated device than that, but he’s never asked. The entire thing trembles and then a scrap of parchment breaks free, landing in the guard’s waiting hand. He blinks in surprise at whatever he reads.

George can’t help but grin. “It’s accurate,” he assures him.

The guard looks up at him in blatant disbelief. “Twelve-and-a-half inches, dragon heartstring, been in use for _three hundred and twenty-seven years_?” he asks.

“It’s a family heirloom,” George tells him, shrugging.

He can’t help but think of Fred’s wand with its identical core, made from dogwood rather than pear, and a touch longer. _Thirteen inches. Unlucky for some_ , his mind provides, helpful as ever. It’s in his room right now, Mum told him, boxed and ready for when the next set of identical twins in the Prewett family – now the Weasley family, he supposes – need it. That’s how these wands have always been passed down, ever since they were created.

With a low whistle, the guard picks up the wand and passes it back to him. “Blimey. Look after that. It’s practically a relic,” he tells him. “You’ll be wanting the seventh floor.”

As he tucks the wand back in his pocket, George manages another brief smile for the guard. “Cheers. See you later,” he says.

The guard still looks a little awed, his eyes wide, and sits back down at the desk, saying nothing else. George heads towards the elevators, which already have wide-open doors. A press of a button later, the doors shut, and the elevator whizzes off, feeling much more spacious and speedier without a family of Weasleys clogging it up, weighing it down.

On the seventh floor, the doors slide back open. A chill immediately greets him, and a shiver runs down his spine. The corridor is dark, lit only by a couple of flickering candles, far less than are typically used during the day. The spell on his shoes having worn off, his footsteps seem to echo all around him as he walks down the corridor. It seems empty. He supposes it mostly is, except for the corpses he knows lie in the rooms ahead.

“Hello?” he calls, wincing at the way his voice bounces off the walls. It feels wrong, breaking the silence so brutally, but he has little choice. He pauses in the middle of the corridor, listening for anyone else nearby.

For a moment, he remains surrounded by silence. Then the door to his left slowly opens and the woman who had led them to Fred’s body only days before appears, her face pale and eyes shocked. When she sees George, she gasps, her hands flying up to her mouth. “No – please – you can’t be here,” she chokes out.

George’s brow furrows in confusion, then his expression smooths out again. He shakes his head and steps forwards, holding his hands up as if in surrender. “I’m not Fred. I’m George, his twin,” he explains quickly.

Realisation and relief passes over the woman’s face. “I thought…” she trails off, blinks hard, then shakes her head too. She bites her lip. “You look so alike. But – but you shouldn’t be here. Not this late at night,” she tells him, frowning. “Your dad – your brothers – Fred’s not here.” She remains hidden mostly by the door, only her face peering out.

“I’ve heard that, but I’m not buying it,” George admits. He’s right in front of the door now, one hand braced on the door frame. “Look, dead people don’t just disappear. You saw us all the other day. I _know_ you wouldn’t let anyone take him, thinking he was a Death Eater.”

In the poor light, it’s difficult to see, but George swears she pales further. She averts her gaze and swallows hard.  “I’m staying here to make sure no other mix-ups happen,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened, but he’s gone, and I don’t know where. You shouldn’t be here at this hour. You’ve wasted a trip. Go home, we’ll send news if there is any,” she says, and then she tries shutting the door.

Before she can, George shoves his foot in the way and hits the door with the palm of his free hand, staring down at her intently. “You know something,” he accuses.

Frightened eyes flicker up to look at him. “I don’t,” she whispers. “Please, I don’t.” She swallows again and can’t maintain eye contact for long, her gaze jumping away yet again.

“You _do_ ,” George insists. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t know anything.”

The woman closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Upon opening them again, she looks back up at George. “I don’t…” She falters. “I don’t know anything.” But the lie falls flat, because her eyes flit away, and her cheeks begin to flush.

George straightens up, keeping his foot lodged in the way of the door, but dropping his hand. “Where’d he go?” he asks.

There’s a long pause and for a few seconds, George wonders whether the woman is going to answer at all. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone. I could lose my job – I could lose _everything_ ,” she eventually says, her voice hushed.

“Please,” and George isn’t ashamed to admit he’s practically begging. “Please. He’s my brother – my twin brother and if he’s out there – I need to find him. We’ve never been apart.” His voice cracks.

The woman stares at him and even in the poor light, George catches the sympathy in her eyes. He also sees the exact moment her resolve breaks.

“He’s not dead.” The words burst free in a rush. “He walked out of here all on his own. I saw him leave, so did the security guard on duty, but they – they told us we had to keep quiet or they’d wipe our memories, fire us, whatever it took to shut us up.” She takes a deep breath. “Eric – the security guard – he said it was wrong to keep it from you all. I guess he knows your dad,” she tells him. She swallows and then continues, “They Obliviated him right there and told me to keep quiet, or…the same would happen to me.”

George frowns, taking in every word. “Why?” is all he can think to ask.

“I can’t tell you anything else,” the woman says. “Please, please don’t ask me – but Amos Diggory – Amos knows,” she tells him. “Level Four. I’m sure he’s still here.”

“How does _Amos Diggory_ know?” George demands. “He works for,” he pauses and blinks. “He works for the Department of Magical Creatures,” he finishes slowly.

The woman makes a noise in her throat, something like a whimper. “You need to talk to him. I don’t know anything else,” she swears.

Still frowning, George withdraws his foot from the door. “Thank you,” he says.

The woman shakes her head and George sees a few tears slip down her cheeks before she shuts the door in his face.

George turns around and walks back towards the elevator, confused and somewhat dazed. He can’t believe he’s _right_. His heart swells in his chest as he walks, his strides growing more confident the closer he gets to the elevator.

There’s only one thought looping around his mind, over and over again: Fred’s alive – he’s alive – he’s _alive_ …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, and bookmarks are always appreciated :)
> 
> If you'd like to see when I post, follow me on [Tumblr!](https://ofbrothersandteacakes.tumblr.com/)


	3. Living Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been written for weeks, but I've only just become satisfied with its contents. I hope you all enjoy!

Numerous candles light up the corridor of the fourth level; it’s far brighter than the seventh level was, but otherwise indistinguishable from it, the doors to George’s left all shut. There’s nobody around, or so it seems. He frowns as he starts down the corridor, deciding not to call out. The woman said Amos was likely here, after all, and he has no reason to think she’s lying about that.

He starts down the corridor, reading the plaques fixed to each door. Eventually, he reaches the last of the doors, and of course, because that’s how the world works, it’s that one which declares ‘Amos Diggory, Acting Head of Department’. George glances downwards and sees light filtering out from under the door, then raises his hand and raps on the door.

“Come in!” Amos’ voice calls immediately, though it’s strained, lacking the cheeriness it held at the Quidditch World Cup some years before. Quite a lot has changed, George supposes. It’s not as if he sounds cheerful himself, these days.

George opens the door and steps inside, shutting the door for privacy afterwards. When he looks at Amos, the man is staring back at him, mouth open. His eyes flick to the badge on George’s breast pocket and he relaxes somewhat, but not entirely.

“Not who you were expecting,” George guesses, moving towards the desk. The seat opposite Amos is free, but George doesn’t sit in it.

Amos offers a sheepish, apologetic smile. “I’m afraid not. I was expecting one of my colleagues,” he confesses. “How can I help you, Mr Weasley?” he asks politely.

“I think you probably know how, Mr Diggory,” George replies, giving a smile, which borders on patronising, of his own. He braces his hands on the back of the empty chair and raises his eyebrows, staring intently at the other wizard all the while.

Shifting in his seat, Amos clears his throat and then straightens up. The smile has become frozen on his face. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to.”

It takes a lot of effort for George to not roll his eyes. He leans forward a little, his grip on the chair tightening. His knuckles go white. “That’s not what the woman on the seventh level told me and let me tell you…I’m more inclined to believe her, what with her being so emotional.”

The change in Amos is instantaneous; his eyes turn hard and the smile drops off his face. “Whatever she told you, she shouldn’t have,” he says. “We will deal with her appropriately. Now, I’m sorry, but you’ve wasted your time coming here today. If there’s any news, we’ll notify you and your family immediately.” His voice holds a coldness, but it doesn’t phase George at all.

“You’ll wipe her memory, you mean,” George says, and his voice gradually grows louder as he continues with, “Which means whatever she knows is important and we deserve to know.” He releases his grip on the chair and kicks it, hard, sending it flying across the room and crashing into a bookshelf. Maybe if this wasn’t about Fred, he could’ve been a bit more patient, more rational, but it _is_ about Fred and George has no time for further lies and secrets.

Amos flinches back, his eyes wide. He grabs onto the arms of his own chair as if George will somehow manage to kick that from beneath him, too.

“Explain what’s going on. _Now_ ,” George hisses, stalking forwards until he’s right in front of the desk. He leans towards Amos and brandishes his wand, pointing it right at Amos’ face.

Gulping, Amos leans back, his fingers twitching as if to make for his own wand. A second later, however, George has summoned up ropes and is tying his arms down non-verbally.

Amos whimpers.

The expression on George’s face is grim. _I need answers and if this is the only way to get them, so be it,_ he thinks bitterly.

“I could have you arrested for this,” Amos says, glaring up at him. “I’m a senior Ministry official.”

“Maybe you could. But would anyone believe you?” George asks, his free hand planted firmly on the desk. The other continues to point his wand at Amos’ face.

“I could show them my memories.”

George rolls his eyes. “Feel free. But then everyone will know you’re hiding something about a missing war hero, and how long do you think you’ll be a senior Ministry official after that, hm?” he challenges.

Another gulp. Amos’ mouth opens and shuts. “My best people are looking for your brother,” he finally answers. “That’s why I was expecting a colleague. I thought perhaps there’d be an update…or a capture…” He trails off and swallows again, going cross-eyed from focusing on the wand aimed at his face.

“A _capture_?” George asks. He frowns. “Of who?”

Amos blinks at him. “Of Fred,” he says, like that’s obvious. “Who else?”

“Why would you need to _capture_ him?” George questions, bewildered. The wand sparks in his hand, influenced, no doubt, by the anger he feels at the thought of Fred being treated with anything less than respect and kindness. He’s not a criminal.

Although he flinches away from the wand, Amos has the cheek to roll his eyes, just a little. “I know you’re not stupid, George. The dead don’t just wake up and walk away. And why would the Department of Magical Creatures be involved, if not because your brother is one?” He raises his eyebrows.

George pokes Amos’ cheek with the tip of his wand. “Don’t mock me. I pieced that part together myself, thanks. But he’s still Fred, no matter what he’s become. I asked why you want to _capture_ him.”

Amos blinks at him. “George. No matter what lunatics like the Lovegoods and Scamanders preach, magical creatures are, for the most part, incredibly dangerous. We’re working on the theory that Fred is a zombie, which isn’t something we typically deal with in England, but with the likes You-Know-Who had working for him…anything is possible,” he explains.

Try as he might, George can’t help but bristle at the mention of the Lovegoods, the thoughtlessly thrown insult grating on him. “Why didn’t you just tell us that, instead of fabricating a lie about him being mistaken for a Death Eater?” he demands. “You’re supposed to be friends with my dad.”

“Because if he is a zombie, our only option will likely be to destroy him,” Amos tells him, blunt but truthful. “I thought it best to deliver his body to your family, as you’d all expect. Not to give you hope where there is none.”

There’s a long pause. George doesn’t move his wand. “Maybe he’s something else. Something which won’t need destroying,” he tries. He hates how desperate he sounds, but he can’t bear the thought of losing Fred when he’s only just learned that he’s alive, in some fashion.

“What else could he be? Only two creatures fall into the category of ‘Living Dead’, which Fred certainly is. I’d guess a vampire, only we stripped them all of the ability to transform anyone decades ago. A zombie is the only rational explanation,” Amos says.

George closes his eyes briefly, sighing. The questionable extraction of all vampire venom to ensure Grindelwald couldn’t use that brand of creature for his war was well-documented. When he opens his eyes again, Amos is staring at him knowingly. The hope of Fred being anything else is fading, but George grasps at what remains of his hope nonetheless.

“You studied the history of our world, and our creatures, I assume. Now, will you please get your wand out of my face?” Amos asks, pleadingly. “And release me from these ropes. They’re digging into my arms.”

“You could easily wipe my memory and send me home,” George counters, trying to process the possibility of Fred being anything less than his usual self, anything less than a _good_ man. He can’t fathom it; he can’t even begin to imagine it.

“Something tells me you’d always end up back here,” is Amos’ smooth reply.

George grits his teeth, considering for a moment, but then releases Amos and tucks his wand into his pocket. “What if I can find him and prove he’s not a threat?” he asks.

Any anger or fear has long since faded from Amo’ eyes. Now, he looks at George with pity. “Then, of course, we won’t seek to capture and destroy him,” he assures him. He flexes his arms experimentally, rubbing them where the ropes dug in. “But George – your parents couldn’t stand to lose another child. Please don’t endanger yourself just to prove a point.”

“I’m not trying to prove a point,” George snaps instantly. “I’m trying to save my brother because you’ve already condemned him to _die_ , when you don’t even know for sure what he is.”

“We don’t work on certainties,” Amos bites back. “We work using rational thought and common sense. Your brother is most likely, and most logically, a monster who is out there, in a city where someone is always on the street, searching for his first meal. Get out of my office so I can do my job. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave this well alone.” He takes a deep breath and points towards the door.

George holds back a snarl of anger and kicks at the desk, only succeeding in hurting the side of his foot. He resists the urge to wince in pain. “If it was Cedric out there, wouldn’t you do anything to make sure you’ve got it right?” he asks.

Amos pales rapidly. He stammers and fumbles for words before choking out, “That’s entirely different.”

“But it isn’t, is it? You wouldn’t let anyone else go near him and “destroy” him unless you knew there was no other possibility,” George says. “And even then, you’d probably hold out hope and try to find a solution. Don’t try and argue you’d do otherwise.”

The pity is still there, but now it’s paired again with frustration. Amos rubs the bridge of his nose. “Don’t get yourself killed,” he says simply.

George grins triumphantly. He gives a quick wave and turns on his heel, heading straight for the door, which he then opens.

As he’s about to leave the room, Amos speaks up behind him again. “If I were working alone to find a magical creature,” he says, “I’d start at Knockturn Alley.”

A brief feeling of gratitude fills George. “Thanks,” he tells Amos over his shoulder.

And just before the door closes, he hears Amos repeat, barely louder than a whisper, “Don’t get yourself killed.”

 _If I get to see Fred just once more_ , George thinks fiercely, fists clenching and unclenching as he strides towards the elevator, _I’d die happy, anyway._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, and bookmarks are always appreciated :)
> 
> If you'd like to see when I post, follow me on [Tumblr!](https://ofbrothersandteacakes.tumblr.com/)


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